


to treat me like you do

by mondaycore



Series: blue monday [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Hate Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 08:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20288164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: “Max,” Charles says, fidgeting nervously, almost coyly, with the collar of his plain white t-shirt. “Congratulations.”Stripped of the armor of his Scuderia gear, he looks just like the kid he is — a kid, ‘cause they might’ve been born only weeks apart, but seasons on the grid are like dog years, aren’t they, and Charles is as green as his livery is red when it comes to sitting at the grown-ups table.“Charles,” Max echoes, mockingly. “Thanks.”





	to treat me like you do

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [如你这般对待我](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22419739) by [NorthArctic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthArctic/pseuds/NorthArctic)

> neat, cool, awesome, i’ve officially lost my way as a human being :D
> 
> post-hockenheim 2019. title courtesy of “blue monday” by new order, cos i live to be really on the nose. warning for unhealthy coping mechanisms, and general violence and nastiness. there’s a lot of fic out there where they’re all sweet on each other and nice, but this ain’t it.

It’s well past midnight when Max gets back to the hotel, a pilfered bottle of champagne in one hand, head spinning and ears still ringing from the madness and the revelry. 

The celebration in the hospitality suite had died down already, all involved in the day’s grand production drifting off in anticipation of an early morning of packing up and getting the hell out of Hockenheim before the home team sent the hitmen around or something. Who knew with these Germans. He supposes he ought to get some sleep as well, but he’s still jittery from the rush of the day, and his heart rate kicks up another thirty beats a minute when he shoulders open the door to his hotel room and finds Charles sitting on the edge of his bed, looking like a freeze-frame out of a sad, sad movie.

Max freezes for a split second, then airily strolls into the room as if he hadn’t noticed Charles there at all. Never let them catch you off-guard and all that, rules of engagement on the track being just as applicable to late-night visits from your supposed mortal rival. 

“Max,” Charles says, fidgeting nervously, almost coyly, with the collar of his plain white t-shirt. “Congratulations.” 

Stripped of the armor of his Scuderia gear, he looks just like the kid he is — a _ kid _, ‘cause they might’ve been born only weeks apart, but seasons on the grid are like dog years, aren’t they, and Charles is as green as his livery is red when it comes to sitting at the grown-ups table.

“Charles,” Max echoes, mockingly. “Thanks.” He sets the champagne down on a nearby table and considers for a second just turning the lights off and knocking the fuck out on the spare bed without saying another word to Charles. But in the end he stands up straight, crosses his arms, and sighs. “I’m sorry about your race.”

Because he’s _ nice _ now, apparently, he’s _ mature _ now, he’s an _ adult _ and a _ rising star _ and not an _ asshole _ anymore. But of course, the gesture is wasted on Charles. 

“You don’t have to be nice to me. I made a mistake,” Charles says, studiously keeping his eyes on the drab carpet of the hotel room. Like he’ll get PR brownie points for being so humble even when the cameras are nowhere nearby. Max grits his teeth. Funny how just a few words from Charles are enough to make him want to start throwing things. All the years they’ve known each other, and Charles has always known how to get _ right _ under his skin without even trying. It’s infuriating.

“Okay then. Congratulations on fucking up. Again,” Max says, to really twist the knife, and notes with satisfaction the way Charles freezes up and clenches his jaw. “Is that what you want me to say? What are you even doing here?”

Charles takes a deep breath and finally meets Max’s gaze. And _ that’s _ new, the hesitation, the borderline guilt, the despondency in his eyes that bespeaks desperation. He cants his head up and leans back, bracing his arms on the bed. Slowly, very slowly, he spreads his legs.

The air in the room suddenly feels thick as tar. Charles licks his lips and Max hates, _ hates _, how instantly aware of it he is, Charles’ mouth, the quick flash of tongue, the way his throat works as he swallows hard.

“What do you want, Charles?” Max asks, and hates himself again for how thready his voice sounds.

“I want you to not … be nice … to me,” Charles repeats. He sounds like he’s forcing the words out against his own will, as if his brain is holding his body hostage. “Please.”

A dangerous heat flares in Max’s belly, steals his breath like he’s been sucker-punched. He clenches his fingers into fists. _ This _ again, he thinks. A different dance to the same song Charles always sings. The fucking self-flagellation. The doe-eyed virgin martyr golden boy tragic hero shit that the press eats right up. God, he wants to fuck Charles up — or maybe he just wants to — well, it’s all the same to Charles, isn’t it —

_ Fine _ . If that’s what Charles wants of him, then he’ll do it. Be _ not nice _. After all, what is it if not his life’s work to take beautiful things and drive them to the point of breaking? And what is Charles if not one of the most enviably beautiful things he’s ever seen?

Max turns away and snatches up his bottle of champagne. His hands are shaking, anticipation, anger. He pops the cork, takes a drink, and holds it up to Charles.

“Open up,” Max says. Charles furrows his brow, but good boy that he is, he opens his mouth, and Max tips the bottle all the way up, pouring champagne all over Charles’ face, down his chest, down his throat so he’s coughing and gagging on it.

“Max, what — ” Charles chokes out, and Max pulls the bottle away and viciously backhands him across the face. Charles gasps and immediately goes pliant and a little glassy-eyed, and it goes _ straight _to Max’s dick.

“Shut up,” Max says. He sets the champagne aside and grabs Charles by the collar of his now-drenched shirt and pulls him down to his knees on the floor, pushes his hipbone into Charles’ cheek in obscene demand. Credit to him, Charles is a quick study in this as in all things, and in no time at all he’s got his hands on Max’s thighs, choking on something else entirely. 

It’s incredible, it’s _ unbelievable _, slick and hot, the way Charles is going at it like he’s dying for it, the sweet, desperate, strangled noises he makes as he lets Max pull his hair and mercilessly use him. His looks hazy and unfocused and maybe not exactly happy, but at least like he’s getting what he needs out of this.

“Shit,” Max hisses, as Charles does something vicious and clever with his tongue. He’s way too good at this. “You do this a lot, huh? You let everyone do this to you?”

Charles mumbles something that sounds a hell of a lot like shameful assent around Max’s dick in his mouth, and an inexplicable rage curls in Max’s guts as he thinks about who else Charles had gone to his knees for like this. Probably half the grid at this point, given the season he’s had, Bahrain and Monaco and Austria, if he gets this way every time he’d had a fucked-up weekend, Christ.

He feels himself getting close and he pulls away, too soon, not yet. Charles all but whines, eyes closed, licking his lips, his hand creeping down between his legs. Max catches him around the wrist and roughly twists his arm behind his back. Charles staggers to his feet with a shaky yelp.

“Not until I say so,” Max snarls, and takes Charles down flat on his back on the bed.

It takes all of a few seconds to rid him of his clothes and then Max grabs on hard enough to bruise and goes in with teeth bared down Charles’ jaw, his neck, his chest, biting marks into Charles’ skin, tasting sweat and alcohol. Charles shifts around desperately.

“Fucking stay still,” Max says, digging his nails in, and bites down, hard, on the inside of Charles’ thigh. The taste of blood floods his mouth. Charles freezes up immediately with a cut-off whine.

“_Désolé, désolé, _ah,_ désole_,” he cries out. Max jams two fingers into his mouth to shut him up, all the way to the back of his throat, but Charles takes it like a champ, choking and retching even as he works his tongue like he’s grateful for it.

Something feral rises in Max at that. Charles is good, he’s _so _good, so eager to please, so eager to do right, how _dare _he. How _dare _he slink around begging the others to do this to him like some kind of orphan child, what the fuck was _wrong _with him, and what the fuck was wrong with everyone else. _He’s_ the one who’s known Charles the longest, they’d been at each other’s throats for more than a decade now, and will be for the decade to come if it’s true what they keep saying, so if anyone is going to lay hands on Charles, it’s going to be _him_, Charles is _his_ —

He spits into his hand, slicks himself up, and pushes into Charles with the barest amount of preparation. He’s so wet already and Charles is so keyed up that it hardly matters, anyway.

Max clamps a hand around Charles’ wrist, puts the other around his neck, holds him down and gives him not a _ thing _to work with as he sets a vicious pace. He revels in it, keeping Charles right on the edge without letting him go over — ruthless, cold satisfaction, the same exhilaration singing in his blood that he feels sending his car at 300kph around a blind corner knowing he’ll make it through while others don’t, the thrill of having something so willing and responsive beneath him, letting him do what he wants, the euphoria of mastery, of perfect control — 

He hits the brink of orgasm, hard, and pulls out and finishes all over Charles’ chest and face. Charles lets out a long, choking keen, and thrashes once, violently, then goes motionless again. 

Max sits back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, panting for breath like he’d just sprinted a marathon, registering nothing but the pounding of his own heart in his ears. _ Holy. Shit. _

Charles looks an absolute mess lying there, his skin painted with bruises and blood and come, his hair curling in his eyes and dripping with sweat, sticky with dried champagne. The contusions around his wrists and neck stand out starkly against his pale skin, and Max notes the angry-looking scratches up his thigh where he’d clawed at himself in order to stay still and quiet. He's wound tight as piano wire, his hands clenched into the sheets, his entire body trembling with the extraordinary effort of obedience. Max doesn’t doubt that even if he were to leave him here like this all night, Charles would still thank him for it come morning.

_ Why, Charles _ , Max wants to ask, but deep down, he knows why. It’s because life had taught Charles that victory was directly proportional to what it cost to achieve it, that suffering begot success, that triumph was worthless without it. Because good things didn’t make sense to him _ unless _ they hurt. He’d spun out, he’d crashed, he’d been ignored and tossed aside and called on only when it was of _ use _. He’d suffered loss beyond loss, one after another, and kept a smile on his face even as he steadily rose into the rarefied ranks where some might’ve understood his pain but nobody dared commiserate with it. The eyes of the world on him. The weight of an entire mythos on his shoulders.

Even if he tried his worst, Max realizes, there isn’t much he could do to hurt Charles. The violence Max had just committed upon him? Was _ nothing_. Was probably a blessing compared to what he’d already gone through.

Slick, bitter regret churns in Max’s stomach. He shouldn’t have done what he had to Charles. But if he hadn’t, someone else would have — _had already_, apparently, if Charles’ half-delirious confession was to be trusted. The very thought makes him want to punch someone in the mouth.

Max runs his hands over Charles’ face, fingers spidering over his nose, his lips, down his ribs, rubbing at his flank. He leans down and puts his mouth on every bruise and bite on his body, licking at them, an animal apology for animal brutality. And Charles, who had borne everything in silence and stillness previously, writhes and whimpers like he’s been gutshot. A table scrap of kindness, and he forgets himself entirely. Max despairs. 

Another few minutes and Charles is sobbing, a near-unintelligible slur of languages tumbling out of his mouth.

“Please please _ s'il vous plaît, _ please Max I’m sorry _ désolé per favore s'il vous plaît s'il vous plaît _ please — ”

_ Yes _ , Max thinks. _ Yes, Charles _. He pushes his thigh between Charles’ legs and Charles bucks up once, twice, and shoves his own hand over his mouth to muffle the noise he makes as he comes. He shudders through it for several long seconds, then he tips his head back and goes limp, drawing in shaky breaths. 

“Shit,” Max says, fervently. “Charles? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Charles mumbles. “Thank — ”

“Don’t fucking thank me for this,” Max says, tired more than angry. Charles nods and closes his eyes, turning on his side and ignoring Max. Max thinks about leaving him be since he’s done far more than enough damage for one night, but he figures Charles is just waiting for the adrenaline to burn off so he can _ really _feel miserable, and then sneak out once Max is asleep to deal with the aftermath alone. Maybe that’s what he’s after, but Max won’t give him that satisfaction.

He levers Charles onto the spare bed and makes a mental note to leave room service an extravagant tip/hush money the next morning, expense it back to Marko as personal necessities, who the fuck cares, he doesn’t. He wets a towel with warm water and cleans Charles off, head to toe, and inserts himself in bed next to Charles when he finishes. The poor thing curls into his side like a favored dog might, and Max runs a hand through his hair idly.

“You should stop doing this to yourself,” he murmurs. Charles is silent, and Max thinks he’s gone to sleep. But after a few long minutes, Charles shifts around restlessly and sighs.

“Nothing else helps,” he mumbles.

Silence falls again.

“Did they say yes? The others?” Max asks after awhile, hypocrite that he is, seeking out self-cruelty like this. He sort of wants to know. He mostly really, _ really _doesn’t.

“The ones I asked, yes,” Charles says. Casually, like they’re talking about tomorrow’s travel plans. Max grits his teeth. “Except Dan. We kinda just, you know, like this all night. I think he was crying.”

_ Christ _. Max wonders how sick it would be to send Dan a thank-you card. Good looking out? Thanks for not fucking Charles up worse? Thanks for being the best person out of everyone here? For not being baited into this by the invitation to violence, somehow so easy to stomach coming from that choir-boy face, paired with the bragging rights of starfucking the golden boy of the grid?

“At least stop going to the others,” Max says. Pleads.

“And come to you?” Charles scoffs. He hesitantly traces the bruises around his neck in an unconscious motion. “Max, everyone else — you didn’t even — you were the nicest to me, even after I asked — ”

“Charles,” Max says, and puts his mouth on Charles’ desperately, anything to get him to shut up, to stop talking. “Please.” 

He tastes champagne on Charles’ tongue still, a sweet-sour tang he normally associates with victory, but not here, not tonight. Maybe not ever again, knowing what he knows, but it’s a small price to pay for the small, hesitant _ okay _he hears against his lips at last.

**Author's Note:**

> well … this went places.
> 
> apologies for grammar, run-on sentences, run-on metaphors, pretension, etc. and the usual disclaimers: please let it be known that i respect the two of them as drivers and rabidly support their teams, this is entirely fiction of my own godforsaken creation, keep this out of sight of the real world and the real people involved, etc., etc.
> 
> otherwise, thank you for reading, and hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
